Nothin'
by July Storms
Summary: He thinks about it sometimes—what having kids with Petra might be like.


**Nothin'**

**Prompt**: "Look at me—just breathe, okay?" Auruo x Petra.

**Notes**: Requested by Harblkun on Tumblr.

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He thinks about it sometimes—what having kids with Petra might be like. Getting her pregnant is easy enough; he thinks about that, too, sometimes, about their nights together, about how easy it would be to just not pull out; the thought is terrifying and wonderful at once.

She'd hate it, though—being forced out of the Corps like that. She'd never forgive him, and if she were unhappy he knows he'd never forgive himself, either.

So he pretends that the titans are gone and the military isn't dangerous and that they can live like normal people, that their nights together aren't spent trying to stay quiet in the barracks, and instead they're pressed skin-against-skin in a place of their own, a house belonging only to them, made a home because it's theirs, because they live in it, because the flowers on the kitchen table are there at Petra's insistence and the curtains were sewn by his mother as a wedding gift, tiny sunflowers embroidered across the base of the linen.

This way, it feels good to imagine that Petra might get pregnant. He thinks of the many ways in which she might surprise him with the news. Sometimes in his thoughts she surprises him at dusk when they're sitting outside together watching the night sky. Other times he imagines her telling him after they've made love. And then there are the daydreams in which she just says it, just blurts it out: "Auruo, I'm pregnant!"

In his mind he always laughs disbelievingly at the news, maybe because in his reality, it's horrible news, it's terrifying, it's the opposite of a good thing, but it's still something he wants for her, for _them_—some kind of normal sort of life: a herd of their own brats to keep track of. But in his imagination it's good news, great news, happy news, and he picks her up and spins her around and kisses her face all over because he's just so happy and she's happy and everything's perfect.

His thoughts then turn to the next however-many months: watching her get round and watching her hair grow longer. He rubs her feet at night when they hurt her and he touches her belly and sometimes when she's snoring softly at daybreak, he kisses the taut skin over the baby and promises he'll protect it always.

Then her water breaks and he sends the neighbors after the midwife because he's not leaving her alone, not if he can help it. She pushes through the pain but she's scared, and he says something kind of heroic like, "Just breathe, Petra. Look at me and—and just _breathe_."

She does, and everything's all right after that. The midwife arrives and Auruo is kicked out of his own bedroom, and hours and hours later, when he's starting to get scared, when he's about to be driven mad by hearing Petra in pain while he paces outside, unable to even hold her hand, he hears a baby crying, wailing—screaming at the top of its goddamned lungs like the little fighter it is.

It's a girl, of course. It's always a girl, first. He doesn't know why, but he likes the idea. He's attached to it. And he's sold the instant he holds his daughter for the first time. He almost cries, he's so moved to see that ugly little wrinkly pink face, the tiny little fingers and toes, the wisps of hair on her tiny little head.

There are other children after that. Sometimes he imagines two or three, sometimes five or six. Petra always pulls through, always seems stronger after she has another kid, always glows with pride and happiness.

She nags him, too, to change diapers, to help burp the youngest baby, to stop cussing in front of the little ones because they'll pick up his horrible habit.

He loves it.

Loves every moment of these daydreams.

Loves the thought of Petra wearing a wedding ring, of her sharing his bed with him every night, of her belly round with pregnancy, of her smile as she feeds the baby for the first time.

And he loves the thought of growing old with her—of her skin drooping, of wrinkles forming, of his hands getting arthritic and his back hurting, of her nagging him about her aches and pains. The kids'll grow up and get married and they'll have kids, and they will never be alone, never-ever-ever, because there is always someone around.

He doesn't even realize he's grinning in the real world until Petra elbows him.

"Hey," she says. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothin'," is his reply.

"You're grinning like a stupid kid," she tells him. "Tell me what you're thinking about."

"You'd like to think you really know me well, huh?" he asks. "Well, you don't. I wasn't thinking about much of anything."

"You're naked in my bed," she informs him. "You can't lie to me here. It's just not right."

"It's not right that I'm bein' _nagged_, either," he tells her.

She rolls her eyes and pinches his side, making him squirm away from her. "I didn't nag you all day, you dope."

"And it's very disconcerting when you think about it. You feelin' okay?"

"I'm feeling fine. It's you I'm worried about. What were you thinking about _really_?"

He's quiet for a long moment, but then he looks at her out of the corner of his eye and her hair's falling in her face and she's smiling and she just looks so perfect and wonderful and cute that he can't lie to her.

"I was thinkin' 'bout what a bunch of kids might be like. With you."

"Yeah?" she asks, wriggling her toes under the blankets.

"Yeah. I figure they'd all have my hair in your color, and they'd all cuss like me but nag like you—"

He grunts as her elbow collides with his side.

"What?" he asks, sounding grumpy.

"Well, first of all," she informs him, pulling the blanket up to her chin, "You're not allowed to cuss in front of the kids."

"What kids?" he asks. "We ain't got no kids."

"Don't be a dolt. You know what I mean."


End file.
